


Stroking Cacti

by jaskiersvalley (connorssock)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Falling In Love, Get Together, M/M, Multi, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:48:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27015262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/connorssock/pseuds/jaskiersvalley
Summary: Geralt had only ever wanted to take part in the Olympics and do what he did best. He didn't expect to make friends, find love or watch a polycule form over the years.
Relationships: Aiden/Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Eskel/Lambert, Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Lambert/Aiden/Eskel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 102





	Stroking Cacti

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OhNoMyBreadsticks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhNoMyBreadsticks/gifts).



Years of hard work and training were about to come to hopeful fruition. The life of an athlete was a lonely one, not many people understood the lifestyle and choices made but Geralt had managed to find himself a couple of like minded people from the last two Olympics he had been to. The first had been a total disaster, his horse had been iffy since travelling and he was a bit unsettled. It meant Geralt didn’t make it through the first Grand Prix. On the plus side, it meant Geralt was able to explore and indulge in the Village Life as some of his team called it. There was a lot to see and Geralt found himself in the company of two other olympians representing Great Britain. The first one was Eskel and Geralt was delighted by the fact that they shared a birthday down to the year. Their tentative, quiet friendship in the common room blossomed into something warm and steady. Given the freedom Geralt had, he could go and watch Eskel compete. It was impressive, Eskel was a master of his sport and Geralt was more offended than Eskel when he didn’t get a medal. Even if Eskel got a personal best in hammer throw and was in the top eight.

They got to go around and watch some of the other sports. There were some quite spectacular events. While Geralt enjoyed the quiet intensity of archery, Eskel dragged them to karate and fencing. It was something Geralt had zero regrets about as they got to watch a very feisty sabreuer yell and growl his way to a bronze medal for Great Britain. The match was rousing, their fellow countryman was loud, gruff and Geralt could already see the hearts in Eskel’s eyes. Then the match ended, a close call but Great Britain came out the winner of that one, and the mask came off.

“Holy shit he’s young,” Geralt growled.

“But he’s competing so he is legal.”

It turned out that Lambert was only eight years younger than them and at the ripe age of 20 he was very capable of making his own decisions. After dinner, Eskel excused himself from Geralt’s company.

“I’m going to find Lambert. See if he wants to learn how to toss a javelin.”

“For fuck’s sake, Eskel. Don’t call your dick a javelin again.”

By the end of the Games, Eskel was kissing Lambert congratulations as he stood on the podium. On the flight back home, Lambert was on Eskel’s other side and Geralt hardcore pretended to be asleep rather than listen to the soft sighs as Eskel relaxed into his seat, blanket on his lap. And Lambert’s hand under the blanket too.

While Geralt’s first Olympics didn’t go as planned, he did gain two friends out of it who most certainly understood his lifestyle. He was delighted to find that while he was in Stourbridge, Eskel was only up in Manchester. Though Lambert was in London, the two made it work, taking weekends or fudging their schedules so they took time away from training together. Geralt was really quite happy for them, if surprised that what he’d assumed to be a Village Fling turned into something more. The two seemed happy enough and Geralt couldn’t begrudge them. Anyway, he had a new lady in his life too: Roach. He had been working with her for a few years and she had been coming into her own. She would be 12 by the time the next Games came round and so able to compete - assuming he qualified.

By the time the next Games rolled around 4 years later, Geralt was less nervous, especially because Eskel pulled him in for a bearhug at the airport, only to be outdone by Lambert who piled in with an excited yell of “let’s fucking do this!” and a whoop. Thankfully, the flight was a little less awkward than last time and everyone’s hands stayed above blankets.

The Grand Prix was nerve wracking, Roach was tense under Geralt but, as they got into their swing, they both relax. As hoped for but not expected, they were through to the Grand Prix Special. He didn’t expect Lambert to be at the side, whooping and clapping him as if he had just won the whole event. Which he didn’t manage in the end, their piaffe deemed a little too heavy. Eskel still declared he was proud of Geralt which meant more than words could express.

“Let’s go watch the diving,” Lambert declared one afternoon.

“You just want to look at sleek, muscly men fall gracefully and then emerge wet.” Not that Geralt was opposed to the idea. He still choked when Eskel butted in.

“Isn’t that what you did for me? Fell gracefully in love with me and your dick gets nice and wet each night.”

So much for the whole no sex rule. Geralt felt like he was the only one to obey that particular one. Shrugging, he followed the other two, pondering whether they’d want to go watch archery with him after diving. They settled into the spectators’ area, the only thing that was missing really was the popcorn. As soon as the event started, Lambert and Eskel were showing each other numbers on their hands, rating the divers. Sometimes even before they did anything more than climb up to the platform.

“I would dive into that,” Eskel commented about the French competitor. “I mean, ten out of ten, would suffocate between those cheeks.”

Against Geralt’s assumptions, Lambert nodded along with an appreciative hum. “We should absolutely make introduction. How’s your French? The only French I know is kissing.”

“Well, we have to hope he speaks our language.” Eskel winked and Geralt realised he absolutely wasn’t talking about English.

“Incorrigible. Both of you. I’m going to go watch archery.”

Famous last words because Geralt found that one Polish archer shot him through the heart with Cupid’s arrow. He looked so focused and serene as he lined up his shot, lips pursed as he drew back then relaxed with the tip of his tongue poking out before releasing. And when he hit the target, his whole face lit up as he did a happy little bounce. Geralt was quite besotted.

It took a bit of courage to find the archer but Geralt approached with a soft smile, head tilting to the side as he listened to the man speak a mile a minute in a language he had no hope of ever deciphering. English was hard enough for Geralt, he was an athlete, not a linguist.

“Good shooting.” He even gave a thumbs up to convey his message.

“Good evening,” came the cheery reply. “Bad English.”

Ah. Geralt tipped his head to the side as he tried to figure out how to communicate. He pointed at the archer and made a bow shooting motion then gave a thumbs up. Delight lit up the man’s face and he said something in Polish. Geralt gave a pained little smile.

“Sorry. I don’t understand.” Pointing at himself, he said, “Geralt.”

Slightly puzzled, the man’s gaze followed his finger. After a moment, he smiled. “Jaskier.”

At least he had a name so Geralt counted it as a victory. Maybe the language barrier wouldn’t be so bad. He pointed between the two of them and then pretended to drink, hoping Jaskier understood his intentions. It seemed to work in an odd charade of miming and pointing at watches but Geralt managed to set up a date.

“See you later, Jaskier.”

He didn’t expect Jaskier to show up with a dandelion in hand for their very non-alcoholic drink.

“Jaskier!” he declared and held the flower aloft and pointed to Geralt’s shirt which also had an embroidered dandelion on it. Geralt was going to have to rethink his linguistic prowess. It didn’t matter though because there was no talking when their tongues pressed against each other in a heated kiss not ten minutes later. The whole no sex rule was absolute bullshit, Geralt decided, only there to be broken.

With the help of online translation, Geralt managed to keep in touch with Jaskier via e-mails. He tried to learn Polish while Jaskier seemed to be taking English lessons. It took Geralt a little bit of research but he found Jaskier’s actual name was Julian Pankratz. However, the one time he sent an e-mail addressed to “Dear Julian”, the reply came back signed off as Jaskier in bold, underlined and italicised. The message was received.

In a more interesting turn of events, Eskel and Lambert started taking frequent long weekends to France. It seemed their dive into bed with Aiden had become a little more serious than intended. Geralt was happy for them even if he ended up spending more time with Roach. It did pay off though because four years later, he was back and qualifying for the Grand Prix freestyle. Lambert was there again, not as a competitor but as a coach. At the age of 28, he had decided that he was too old to compete, his knee was giving him trouble and he kind of wanted to drink more. Plus, he got much more freedom to support his boyfriends.

Four years was a long time and Jaskier’s English was so much better than Geralt’s Polish. While Geralt could just about order three beers, Jaskier was able to have conversations and with the most wonderful accent Geralt had ever heard. His favourite thing was when they video chatted and he could rile Jaskier up enough that he begged in Polish for sweet release. In the years between the Games, Geralt visited Poland twice and Jaskier managed to squeeze in four visits to England. He even brought his bow so he could keep training. It was quite the perfect set up. Plus, the sex was rather mind blowing, Geralt had never considered himself one for muscle and hadn’t thought of Jaskier was well built but he had never been happier to be wrong.

“So,” Aiden leaned in and everyone gathered closer, ready to hear the great secret, “I hear that gymnastics is where to be this year. The Russians have a new star.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. Lambert and Eskel together had been quite charged. With Aiden they were insatiable. And now they wanted to go ogle some gymnast? Poor Geralt was quite scandalised.

“I’m all in,” Jaskier declared like he was in some poker game. Geralt gave up.

He had to admit, the gymnast was impressive. The FX was his speciality and it was delivered with a certain gravitas and aplomb. The score of 15.4 earned a scowl and Geralt was rather taken aback that he had been expecting a higher score. Especially when, checking up on the scores later, he was in the lead.

The next morning, Lambert had a very visible love bite on his neck and Geralt didn’t say anything. At least, not until he saw Eskel grinning at it and Aiden snickering.

“Really?” Geralt asked, eyes drifting to the dark bruise.

It was Eskel who grinned with a proud “hell yeah” then decided that the silence Gearlt left wasn’t one of disapproval but of interest. “All I can say is that gymnasts are damn strong and holy shit Cahir is flexible.”

Geralt covered his ears to save his delicate sensibilities. “He’s 19 for crying out loud!”

Lambert was 28, Eskel 36 and Aiden was somewhere around Lambert’s age, maybe a few years younger. Geralt gently stopped thinking. They were all of legal and consenting age. Plus, he knew his friends, they wouldn’t ever do anything against anyone’s will.

“We know,” Lambert said. “We had a chat. All I will say is, he was very much in control.”

His eyes were drawn to something behind Geralt and, with a sinking feeling, he turned. Sure enough, Cahir was approaching.

“You made it!” Lambert crowed. “Cahir, meet Geralt, our friend.”

“Rider.” The nod was terse and sharp and Geralt’s eyebrows shot up. “You have good horse. Strong.”

“Thanks.” Geralt scratched the back of his head. “Your, uh, flips are good?”

“They are,” Cahir agreed assuredly.

To complete the set, Jaskier sidled up and kissed Geralt in greeting. Cahir said something in Russian and Jaskier turned to shoot something back. For the first time, Geralt saw Cahir’s eyes crinkle and the severe look melt into something softer, more youthful.

“Wait. You speak Russian?”

“You don’t?” Jaskier turned back to him with a cheeky smile. “Travelling to competitions takes time. I got bored.”

Proud yet disbelieving, Geralt shook his head with a laugh. “Polyglot.”

That year, Geralt was thrilled to have a silver medal to take home. It matched Jaskier’s perfectly. Naturally, Cahir took the gold, Aiden missed out on a podium by two places while Eskel was the star of the Team GB with his gold. Lambert assured them he would help them all celebrate in style.

Between trips to Poland and training, Geralt didn’t realise until two years later that Eskel had moved house. Still in Manchester but more in the suburbs with more space. Plus more people. Lambert had moved in with him and, not long after his 21st birthday, Cahir joined them too. Aiden was last to turn up, deciding that competitions weren’t as much fun without his lovers there. Maybe Geralt was a little jealous because he and Jaskier had been together as long as Aiden had been with Lambert and Eskel yet he showed no interest in taking things to the next level. At least, that was what Geralt thought until he was invited to a party, Eskel promising to drive him. Only, it wasn’t a house or a pub they went to. It was an airport and Jaskier emerged from the arrivals gate, threw himself at Geralt with a gleeful squeal. Right there, while scooped up in Geralt’s arms, he pulled a little box from his pocket, uncaring of their spectators. Of course Geralt said yes.

**Author's Note:**

> Other short stories can be found on tumblr ~ @jaskiersvalley


End file.
